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Ebook PDF of Seizoen 01 Zomerster 1St Edition Wendy Louise Full Chapter
Ebook PDF of Seizoen 01 Zomerster 1St Edition Wendy Louise Full Chapter
Wendy Louise
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Zomerster
Wendy Louise
Copyright Zomerster
Eerste druk 2010, © Wendy Louise 2010
Hoewel aan de totstandkoming van deze uitgave de uiterste zorg is besteed, aanvaardt de
auteur/uitgever geen aansprakelijkheid voor eventuele fouten of onvolkomenheden, noch
voor de directe of indirecte gevolgen hiervan.
Niets uit deze uitgave mag zonder voorafgaande schriftelijke toestemming van de
auteur/uitgever openbaar worden gemaakt of verveelvoudigd, waaronder het reproduceren
door middel van druk, offset, fotokopie of microfilm of in enige digitale, elektronische,
optische of andere vorm of (dit geldt zonodig in aanvulling op het auteursrecht) het
reproduceren ten behoeve van een onderneming, organisatie of instelling of voor eigen
oefening, studie of gebruik indien niet strikt privé van aard.
Opeens was alles over. Ik had geen toekomst in het theater, ik had
geen vriendje meer en wist voor de dooie dood niet wat ik met mijn
leven aan moest.
Het was rond Kerst dat ik voor het eerst hoorde over de animadores.
Vrienden van mijn ouders waren op vakantie naar Tenerife geweest
en vertelden honderduit over die leuke, jonge mensen die hen de
hele dag hadden beziggehouden. Overdag vermaakten hun kinderen
zich in de Mini Club, terwijl ze zelf een potje volleybal speelden. ’s
Avonds werden de leukste shows opgevoerd en was het feest. Op
de foto’s die ze lieten zien zag ik lachende, zongebruinde mensen
met twinkelende ogen. Ik wilde zo’n vrolijk mens op de foto zijn.
Opeens had ik weer een toekomst. Kleinkunst Academie? Ik zou
zonder die school iedere avond op de bühne kunnen stralen, als
animadora.
Zo belandde ik vandaag op Schiphol. Ik huilde op het moment dat ik
afscheid moest nemen van Mel. Mel is niet alleen mijn zusje, ze is
mijn beste vriendin. Ze is achttien, drie jaar jonger dan ik, en sinds
een paar jaar zijn we onafscheidelijk. Dubbele dooier noemen ze
ons, als we precies tegelijkertijd hetzelfde zeggen of doen. We
stappen, shoppen, sporten en lachen samen. We delen alles en ik
weet zeker dat ik haar ontzettend zal missen.
We zitten ruim een uur in het busje voordat we aankomen bij het
hotel van de Happymoon keten waar we de komende drie weken
een opleiding volgen. Het hotel is gelegen in het plaatsje Alcudia,
aan de Noordoostkust van Mallorca. Ik stap uit en voel een koude
wind in mijn gezicht snijden. Het is eind maart en aan deze kant van
het eiland kan het stevig waaien. Ik hoopte morgen, de laatste vrije
dag, naar het strand te kunnen, maar ik denk dat die bikini voorlopig
ingepakt kan blijven.
In de receptie zien we Pierre, de directeur van de
entertainmentafdeling van Happymoon. Ik herken hem van het
sollicitatiegesprek in Amsterdam. Hij verwelkomt ons en deelt de
sleutels van de appartementen uit. Het is zes uur en om zeven uur
gaan we met zijn allen eten in een restaurant in Alcudia. Meegaan is
niet verplicht, maar wel gezellig. Ik besluit om mee te gaan dineren,
terwijl ik doodmoe mijn twee koffers naar het appartement zeul. Als
ik niet meega, heb ik meteen een minpunt te pakken natuurlijk. Ik
blijf stilstaan voor de deur van het appartement dat de eerstkomende
drie weken mijn ‘thuis’ zal zijn. Vanochtend werd ik wakker in het
veilige bed op de zolder van mijn ouderlijk huis. Moet je me nu zien.
Helemaal alleen op een Spaans eiland en geen idee wat me te
wachten staat. Ik lach en draai de sleutel om. Ik zal dit klaarspelen,
ik word groots in mijn werk, maar bovendien ga ik genieten. Ik ben
een animadora.
UNO
‘Hallo, eindelijk ben je er. Ik ben Ansje.’
Zodra ik de deur achter me sluit beent een Boerin Bertie lookalike
met uitgestoken hand op me af. ‘Ik schrik me dood’, stamel ik. ‘Hoi,
sorry, ik heet Mandy, moet je mijn hart voelen … Ho, dat was maar
bij-wijze-van-spreken hoor.’ Een grote, met chocolade bedekte, hand
komt op mijn borst af en ik deins achteruit. Hollands Glorie begint te
lachen. ‘Leuk hoor dat je er bent, ik ben hier al vanaf gisteren en er
was nog helemaal niemand, leek wel een spookstad, en euh …’
‘Het spijt me als ik je even onderbreek,’ zucht ik, terwijl ik een akelige
hoofdpijn voel opzetten, ‘maar ik wil graag snel even douchen en
dan met de rest mee uit eten. Jij gaat zeker ook wel mee om zeven
uur?’ ‘Natuurlijk’, lacht Ansje (waarom hebben haar ouders haar niet
gewoon Ans genoemd?) ‘Ik heb het rechterbed genomen, dus gooi jij
maar je koffer op het linker. We pakken die vanavond samen wel uit.
De douche is hier, je kunt mijn shampoo wel even gebruiken hoor en
er staat karnemelk-doucheschuim, en …’ Ik vermoed dat dit drie
lange weken worden.
Aan een lange tafel zitten Pierre, Juan, Katta en Nadja. Zij zullen
deze cursus de vijftig mensen die voor hen in de zaal verspreid
zitten aan lange rijen tafels, opleiden tot animadores. Ik zit achterin
de zaal, aan de laatste rij tafels. Britt nam mij na het ontbijt mee naar
achteren, waarna Heinz, Tom, Peet en Johnny zich bij ons voegden.
Het is een gezellig groepje. Heinz is half Duits, half Mallorquins en
werkt ook al een aantal jaar voor Happymoon. Ik heb hem nog niet
gesproken, maar hij is een goede vriend van Johnny. ‘Ik heb je
gemist op het strandfeest gisteren’, fluistert Johnny, terwijl hij zijn
stoel iets dichterbij schuift. ‘Ik ben vroeg gaan slapen’, lach ik terug.
‘Ik wilde goed uitgeslapen zijn vandaag hè. Britt heeft me genoeg
angst ingeboezemd voor deze draak van een cursus.’ Ik geef hem
een knipoog en lach. Gisteren, mijn laatste vrije dag die ik zo goed
wilde benutten, werd ik om twaalf uur ‘s middags wakker. Daarna
was ik het grootste gedeelte van de dag bezig mijn spullen uit te
pakken en naar het gezwets van Ansje te luisteren. Peet kwam om
vijf uur vragen of ik meekwam naar het strandfeest dat hij samen
met een paar andere jongens had georganiseerd. De gedachte aan
een paar borrels op het strand stemde me vrolijk, maar ik had eerst
naar huis gebeld. Dat had ik dus niet moeten doen. Zodra Mel de
telefoon opnam, begon ik te huilen en was ik de rest van het gesprek
bezig geweest Mel ervan te overtuigen dat het wél goed met me ging
en dat die heimwee best meeviel. Nadien voelde ik me zo rot, dat ik
naar de kamer ben teruggegaan. Ansje was wel naar het strandfeest
dus ik kon mezelf rustig in slaap huilen. Johnny hoeft dit allemaal
niet te weten, besluit ik.
‘Dat betekent dus dat het ontbijt niet verplicht is, maar wel dat
iedereen aan deze tafels moet zitten om negen uur precies.’
Verdorie, nu heb ik het begin van Pierre’s speech gemist. En wat is
toch die stank? Ik heb niet gedoucht vanochtend, maar ik kan toch
niet zo stinken?
‘… en dan is de lunch tussen een en drie.’ Ik moet nu echt opletten,
want nu heb ik weer een deel van het programma gemist. Die stank
tast serieus mijn hersenen aan. ‘… dus als jullie dan allemaal
meelopen met jouw profesor, dan wens ik jullie een hele fijne tijd.’ Er
klinkt een bescheiden applaus en iedereen staat op. Behalve ik. Ik
weet niet wat ik moet doen. ‘Wat gebeurt er? Waar moeten we
heen?’ vraag ik aan Britt en achter me begint Johnny te lachen. ‘Jij
moet met Katta mee, jij bent toch kinderentertainer?’ fluistert Britt.
‘Op dit moment ben ik nog helemaal niets en als ik niet oppas ben ik
zo weer thuis’, denk ik. Ik loop naar de groep die zich om Katta heeft
verzameld, later vraag ik wel wat die regels precies waren. Die stank
is wel weg.
De ochtend vliegt voorbij. Katta legde als eerste het programma voor
de cursus uit. Het is de bedoeling dat er iedere ochtend om negen
uur precies een ochtendbespreking wordt gehouden. Iedere dag
worden er mensen aangewezen om de avondshow voor te bereiden.
De mensen die overblijven krijgen, met hun respectievelijke groep,
lessen in kinder- of sportentertainment. Deze eerste avond voeren
de ervaren entertainers een show op, zodat wij nieuwelingen een
idee krijgen over de inhoud van een avondprogramma. Katta vertelt
dat we vanaf vandaag iedere avond om half negen de Mini Disco
oefenen. De Mini Disco is het onderdeel waarmee iedere avond het
programma begint. Het is een half uur met muziek en dansjes voor
de kinderen in het hotel. Aangezien er in Montes Park nog geen
gasten zijn, moeten alle entertainers iedere avond zelf voor kinderen
spelen. ‘Nou, daar zitten wij niet mee’, lacht Tom en hij trekt aan mijn
staart.
De rest van de ochtend brengen we door met trabajos manuales,
oftewel knutselen. Katta brengt ons ideeën bij op het gebied van
knutselactiviteiten, waarna we zelf iets leuks moeten toevoegen. Ik
geniet werkelijk van een ochtendje gekleurde zandflesjes en
mobielen maken. Mijn voorstel om maskers uit karton te maken blijkt
een grote hit waardoor mijn dag niet meer stuk kan.
Vanaf mijn knieën voel ik mijn benen niet meer. Maar eindelijk mag ik
zitten. Wat een dag heb ik achter de rug. Na het partijtje volleybal,
dat anderhalf uur duurde, mochten we douchen. Hoe en wanneer
Ansje het voor elkaar kreeg is me nog steeds een raadsel, maar de
badkamer was schoon. Ik had precies genoeg tijd om te douchen en
iets leuks aan te trekken. Voor eten had ik geen energie meer, in
plaats daarvan maakte ik een lange wandeling over het strand.
Om half negen stond de Mini Disco op het programma. Dat was
zowel belachelijk als ontzettend komisch. Met vijftig volwassenen
stonden we te swingen op kinderliedjes.
Alle nieuwelingen wachten nu gespannen op de allereerste show die
we te zien krijgen: Magical Show. De bühne is met zwarte doeken
afgedekt en de enige verlichting komt van black-light lampen. De
muziek begint, de tune van een Rocky film, en uit de luidsprekers
klinkt de stem van Johnny die de show aankondigt in vijf talen. Het
kan me niet schelen wat ik te zien krijg, als het maar lang duurt. Dat
betekent namelijk dat ik nog lang niet hoef op te staan. Nu alleen
nog wakker blijven.
‘Bedankt voor de lift’, kus me, kus me… We staan onderaan de trap
naast de deur van mijn appartement. Johnny’s kamer is op de eerste
verdieping, waardoor we hier afscheid nemen. Een ding weet ik
zeker: ik laat me vanavond niet weer afschepen met een kusje op
mijn wang. Ik word er gek van. Ik wil gewoon die Duitse lippen op
mijn lippen, zijn warme armen om me heen en zijn handen door mijn
haren. ‘Ik heb een fantastische avond gehad Johnny,’ kus me, kus
me, ‘slaap lekker.’ Ik draai me om naar de deur. Het werkt! Johnny
pakt mijn arm, draait me om mijn as en (halleluja) kust me. Heel
voorzichtig, zacht en lief. Er is niets seksueels aan, gewoon een hele
lekkere, lieve kus. ‘Sleep well honey’, fluistert hij in mijn oor en
verdwijnt naar boven.
Daar sta ik dan. Geen vlinders maar een hele vloot zweefvliegtuigen
maakt zich meester van mijn buik. Onze eerste kus, onderaan de
trap in Montes Park. De tweede gebeurtenis van deze avond die ik
nooit zal vergeten.
Een paar dagen later hebben we eindelijk onze eerste vrije dag. Wat
is het heerlijk om uit jezelf wakker te worden. Geen wekker vandaag,
even een dag niet uitsloven. Het is zondag. Ik kijk op de wekker en
zie dat het twaalf uur is. De regen klettert tegen de ramen, mijn bikini
blijft alweer een dag in de kast. De halve nacht brachten we met een
klein groepje door op de kamer van een van de Deense meisjes. We
speelden Hints en dronken chipitos. Het feest was nog in volle gang
toen Johnny ik weggeglipten voor een wandeling over het strand.
We genieten van iedere minuut samen. We hebben besloten onze
relatie nog even geheim te houden. Johnny zegt dat we naar twee
verschillende hotels worden gestuurd als het bekend wordt.
Happymoon wil geen paartjes in hun hotels. Maar we brachten de
afgelopen twee dagen genoeg gestolen minuten samen door en het
geheimzinnige maakt het nog romantischer.
Een dreun op de deur rukt me uit mijn dagdroom. Welke idioot haalt
het in zijn hoofd om me uit deze heerlijke roes te halen. Weer een
dreun. ‘Ja, ja, ik kom er al aan. Je mag wel een hele goede reden …
Johnny!’ Hij drukt zijn hand op mijn mond en sluit de deur achter
zich. ‘Wat doe je hier? Ansje …’ De rest van de zin wordt gesmoord
door een heerlijke kus. ‘Don’t worry honey, ik zag je lieflijke
kamergenootje daarnet met een reep chocolade zo groot als haar
arm naar de bar lopen. Die zie je voorlopig niet terug.’ Tussen drie
kussen door vertelt Johnny me dat we ongestoord alleen kunnen
zijn. Hij tilt me op en neemt me mee naar het bed. Hij legt me neer
en gaat naast me liggen. ‘Vertel me eens, waarover heb je
gedroomd vannacht?’ Johnny drukt zich op een elleboog en kijkt me
aan. Zijn ogen glinsteren. ‘Over Tom’, grap ik, waarop Johnny het
kussen onder mijn hoofd vandaan trekt en het op mijn gezicht drukt.
‘Nee, nee, over jou’, klinkt mijn gesmoorde kreet onder het kussen.
‘Ik droom alleen nog maar over jou’, klinkt het nu heel duidelijk,
terwijl Johnny het kussen naar mijn voeteneind verplaatst. ‘Ik weet
het,’ zucht Johnny, ‘ik denk ook alleen nog maar aan jou. Het maakt
me bang.’ De glinsterende ogen worden dof. Het voelt zo dubbel. Hij
vertelt me zojuist dat hij verliefd op me is, maar tegelijkertijd weet ik
dat dát juist een gevaar betekent. Happymoon zal onze relatie nooit
toestaan. Ik kruip tegen Johnny aan en houd hem stevig vast. Hij
kust me, dit keer niet lief maar heftig, terwijl zijn ademhaling versnelt.
Ik woel met mijn handen door zijn haar. Ineens rukt Johnny zich los.
‘Ga douchen! We stappen in mijn auto en gaan weg hier. Ergens iets
eten en bijpraten, ik wil alles van je weten. Maar ik wil niet steeds
over mijn schouder kijken.’ Hij tilt me op, brengt me naar de
badkamer en neemt afscheid met een kleine tik op mijn billen.
Een half uur later zitten we in de auto. Johnny reed naar het
nabijgelegen hotel en wachtte daar op mij. Straks stappen we uit in
een ander dorp, waar niemand ons kent. We kunnen hand-in-hand
lopen en elkaar zoenen, zomaar midden op straat.
‘Daar is ie, die glimlach waarop ik verliefd ben. Waar denk je aan?’
Johnny zat stiekem naar me te kijken. ‘Gewoon, ik voel me lekker’,
zucht ik. ‘Even een dag weg uit die hectiek. Samen met jou.’ Ik lach
naar hem. Zonder Johnny had ik deze eerste week niet overleefd. Ik
heb Mel nog een aantal keer gebeld en telkens hing ik op met een
steen op mijn maag. Door even mijn hand aan te raken of tegen me
aan te praten tijdens een gestolen moment in de duinen, maakte
Johnny de heimwee minder erg. Ik ben ervan overtuigd dat ik zonder
hem alweer op het vliegtuig naar huis had gezeten.
‘Here we are again, miss Sophie’, draagt Johnny zijn favoriete zin uit
Diner for One voor, terwijl hij het portier van de auto voor me opent.
We zijn in Cala Ratjada, een pittoresk vissersdorpje ten zuiden van
Alcudia. De zon is tevoorschijn gekomen en we lopen hand in hand
(jawel!) over de boulevard. Ik snuif de zeelucht op en kijk naar
Johnny. Hij loopt rustig naast me en kijkt uit over de zee. Zou dit
voorbestemd zijn? Is hij mijn dekseltje? Blijven we voor altijd samen?
Cala Ratjada blijkt lang niet zo uitgestorven als Alcudia. We lopen
verder over de boulevard langs de kustlijn en komen zowaar
toeristen tegen. Johnny legt me uit dat de hotels hier ook in de winter
zijn geopend, omdat dit dorp zuidelijker ligt dan Alcudia. Cala
Ratjada is erg geliefd bij overwinteraars, vertelt hij.
We lopen al zeker een half uur en er lijkt geen einde te komen aan
deze boulevard. De wind waait door mijn haren, de avondzon
verwarmt mijn rug en een Duitse hand rust op mijn rechterbil. Wat
kan mij nou nog gebeuren? ‘Heb je honger?’ vraagt Johnny. Hij blijft
staan voor een kleine deur in de rotsen. Ik knik. De frisse lucht en de
stortvloed aan gevoelens die ervoor zorgt dat het bloed met
driehonderd kilometer per uur door mijn aderen stroomt, maakt me
hongerig. Johnny barst in lachen uit en slaat zijn armen om me
heen. ‘Heb je zo’n honger?’ Waarschijnlijk heb ik iets te fanatiek
geknikt, dus zeg ik heel koel: ‘Nou, ik zou wel iets lusten, maar ik
kan ook best nog even wachten hoor’. Ik hoop dat mijn maag dit
moment niet zal verstoren door te knorren. Johnny glimlacht, kust
mijn voorhoofd en knikt vervolgens met zijn hoofd naar de deur in de
rotsen achter ons. ‘Achter die deur bevindt zich het beste
tapasrestaurant van het eiland. Zullen we?’ Hij draait me rond zodat
ik met mijn gezicht naar de deur sta. El Tropezon staat er op het
uithangbord boven de deur geschreven en door de openstaande
ramen komt de geur van knoflook me tegemoet. ‘Zet die tafel maar
vol señor’, denk ik terwijl ik de deur openduw. Ik kijk over mijn
schouder en vraag Johnny wat El Tropezon eigenlijk betekent, terwijl
ik het lokaal inloop. Het volgende ogenblik gebeurt er een aantal
dingen tegelijk. Vanachter de bar hoor ik iemand ‘Hé Johnny’ roepen,
ik zie Johnny zijn mond openen om mij antwoord te geven op mijn
vraag en voel de grond onder mijn voeten wegglijden. Het volgende
moment lig ik op mijn rug op de vloer. Terwijl ik naar mijn voeten kijk,
die zich recht boven me bevinden, valt mijn rok langzaam de
verkeerde kant op en show ik de totale bevolking aan de bar mijn
allernieuwste hippe hipster. Johnny’s ogen zijn groot als hij me aan
beide handen omhoog hijst, maar zijn gezicht ontdooit zodra hij ziet
dat ik heel ben. Ik kijk om me heen. De vloer van het restaurant is
bezaaid met servetjes. De boosdoeners. Een van deze glibberige
Spaanse mondhoekvegertjes kwam onder de zool van mijn
espadrilles terecht en zorgde eigenhandig voor deze verpletterende
entree. Ik hoor Johnny grinniken en draai me om. Zijn hoofd is rood
aangelopen en zijn hele lichaam schudt. ‘Het is goed hoor Johnny,’
zeg ik terwijl ik mijn rok gladstrijk, ‘ik heb geen pijn.’ Maar Johnny
barst nog niet in lachen uit. Hij pakt mijn hand en neemt me mee
naar het dichtstbijzijnde vrije tafeltje. Hij probeert zijn gezicht in de
plooi te houden, maar zijn ogen glinsteren van plezier. ‘Mandy,
tropezon betekent letterlijk uitglijder ‘, zegt hij zo serieus mogelijk.
Dan pas realiseer ik me hoe grappig dit is: ik ben de Tropezon
binnen ge-tropezon-eerd. Tegelijk proesten we het uit. ‘Maar waarom
liggen al die servetjes op de grond? Dat is toch levensgevaarlijk?’
vraag ik Johnny zodra we zijn uitgelachen. Johnny legt uit dat dit
normaal is in tapasbars. Als je aan de bar een drankje nuttigt en je
neemt er tapas bij, is het heel normaal het servetje op de grond te
gooien nadat je je mond afgeveegt. Het zijn leuke mensen die
Spanjaarden, maar ze houden er rare gewoonten op na. Ik maak
een interne notitie om voortaan altijd eerst even de grond te checken
voordat ik een restaurant binnenloop.
Zodra de jongen achter de bar ziet dat Johnny en ik ontspannen
zitten te praten komt hij met een grote kan water onze kant op.
‘Johnny, amigo, hoe is het met je man?’ Hij begroet Johnny met een
tik op zijn schouder en steekt dan zijn hand naar mij uit. ‘Hello
beautiful lady, ik ben Paco’, begroet hij me en ik schud zijn hand.
‘Leuke onderbroek heb je.’ Ik trek mijn hand quasiverontwaardigd
los. Hij schenkt de glazen vol en geeft ons twee menukaarten. Ik ben
nog niet thuis in de wereld van de tapas, dus laat ik Johnny
bestellen. Ik zie wel wat er op tafel komt, ik heb zo’n honger dat ik
wel een hele stier op kan. Een paar minuten later vervloek ik mezelf
voor deze gedachte. Want tijdens de vloeiend Spaanse bestelling
die Johnny opdreunt, maak ik sangre de toro op. Toro betekent stier,
dat weet iedereen … ik krijg stierenballen. Het zal toch niet waar
zijn? Ik krijg het opeens erg warm. Net wanneer ik op het punt sta
om naar de wc te gaan en er pas weer uit te komen tegen de tijd dat
de koffie wordt geserveerd, staat Paco aan onze tafel met een fles
rode wijn in zijn handen. Sangre de toro lees ik op het etiket.
Iets later staat de tafel vol. We eten pa’amb’oli, een heerlijk broodje
met tomaat, knoflook en olijfolie, versierd met een plak ham. Daarna
volgt Sobresada, een Mallorquinse worstsoort, salpicon, een
heerlijke vissalade, mejillones al tigre, gevulde mosselen en pinchos,
een heerlijk gekruide vleesspies. Bij de koffie nemen we een
ensaimada, een Mallorquins gebakje in de vorm van een bolus,
gevuld met gele room.
Wanneer we uiteindelijk weer buiten staan, vrees ik voor serieus
ontploffingsgevaar. Ik heb in dagen niet zoveel gegeten. Zwijgend
lopen we terug naar de auto. Johnny slaat zijn arm om me heen en
ik leg mijn hoofd op zijn schouder. Ik voel me totaal verzadigd op alle
fronten. Ik doe het goed in de cursus, heb net heerlijk gegeten en ik
ben tot over mijn oren verliefd op een man die net zo verliefd is op
mij. Ik denk terug aan een scene van Grey’s Anatomy, waarin
Meredith en McDreamy eindelijk samen komen, en glimlach. Zo
gelukkig voel ik me op dit moment, met mijn eigen McGerman.
§ 13
And now, on the slope leading up to the railway station, George
was distressed. He was physically and mentally unmanned. He
could not speak without a tremor. He seemed so physically
enfeebled that she took his arm and asked him to lean on her. All at
once she realized the extraordinary fact that of the two she was
infinitely the stronger. With all his self-confidence and arrogance and
aplomb, he was nothing but a pathetic weakling.
The hostility of the crowd had made her vaguely sympathetic with
him. She had watched him being browbeaten by policemen and by
the owner of the cart, and a strange protective instinct surged up in
her. She wanted to stick up for him, to plant herself definitely on his
side. She felt she was bound to champion him in adversity. She
thought: “I’m with him, and I must look after him. He’s my man, and
I’ve got to protect him.”
All the long walk to the station was saturated in this atmosphere
of tense sympathy and anxious protection.
“We shall catch the 10.20,” he said. “There’s heaps of time. We
shall have over an hour to wait.”
“That’ll be all right,” she said comprehensively.
On the station platform they paced up and down many times in
absolute silence. The moon was gorgeously radiant, flinging the
goods yard opposite into blotches of light and shadow. The red
lamps of the signals quavered ineffectually.
“You know it’s awfully lucky you weren’t hurt,” he said at last.
She nodded. Pause.
Then he broke out: “You know, really, I’m most awfully sorry——”
“Oh, don’t bother about that,” she said lightly. “It wasn’t your fault.
You couldn’t help it.”
(Yet she knew it was his fault, and that he could have helped it.
She also knew that he had no licence.)
And then a strange thing happened.
They were in the shadow of a doorway. He suddenly put his two
arms on her shoulders and kissed her passionately on the lips. Her
hair was blowing behind her like a trail of flame. He kissed her again
with deepening intensity. And then her face, upturned to his, dropped
convulsively forward. Her eyes were closed with a great mist, and
her hair fell over his hands and hid them from view. There was
something terrible in the fierceness with which he bent down and,
because he could not kiss her face, kissed her fire-burnished hair.
And as he did so again and again she began to cry very softly. His
hands could feel the sobs which shook her frame. And he was
thrilled, electrified....
“My God!” he whispered....
... Then with a quick movement she drew back. The tears in her
eyes were shining like pearls, and her face was white—quite white.
Passion was in every limb of her.
“That’s enough,” she said almost curtly, but it was all that she
could trust herself to say. For she was overwhelmed, swept out of
her depth by this sudden tide.
And all the way to Liverpool Street, with George sitting in the
corner opposite to her, her mind and soul were running mad riot....
“Good-bye,” he said later, at the gate of No. 14, Gifford Road,
and from the inflexion of his voice she perceived that their relations
had undergone a subtle change....
She watched him as he disappeared round the corner. On a
sudden impulse she raced after him and caught him up.
“George!” she said.
“Yes?”
“Will you be summoned, d’you think?”
“Oh, certainly.”
“Well—I thought I’d tell you ... if you’re short of money through it
... I’ve got some.... I can lend it to you ... if you’re short, that is....”
“It’s awfully good of you,” he replied. Yet she knew he was
thinking of something else.... Her running back to him had reopened
the problem of farewell. He was debating: “Shall I kiss her again?”
And she was wondering if he would. In a way she hoped not. There
would be something cold-blooded in it if he did it too frequently. It
would lack the fire, the spontaneity, the glorious impulse of that
moment at Bishop’s Stortford railway station. It would assuredly be
banal after what had happened. She was slightly afraid. She wished
she had not run back to him. Nervousness assailed her.
“Good-night!” she cried, and fled back along Gifford Road.
Behind her she heard his voice echoing her farewell and the sound
of his footsteps beginning along the deserted highway. It was nearly
two a.m....
Undressing in the tiny attic bedroom she discovered a dark bruise
on her right shoulder. It must have been where he lurched sideways
against her just after the collision. She had not felt it. She had not
known anything about it....
CHAPTER XI
THE SECOND TRANT EPISODE
§1
IT was November.
They had been engaged three months. Three months it was
since a certain winedark evening when, in the shadows of the heavy
trees on the Ridgeway, he had suddenly said:
“I suppose we are engaged?”
“Are we?”
“Well, I think it’ll be all right.... I told my father, and he didn’t
object.... Will you come to tea on Sunday?”
She perceived that their relations had entered on a new phase.
“If you like,” she said.
And he had kissed her good-bye that evening.
The Sunday had been nerve-racking. She felt she was on show.
Many years it was since she had entered the Trants’ house. In those
early days she had come in as Helen’s school friend, and nobody
had taken much notice of her. Mr. Trant had chattered amiable
trivialities and chaffed her about her red hair. Now all was immensely
different. She was George’s fiancée. She had to be treated with
deference. Mr. Trant discussed the weather and gardening and (to
the utmost extent of his capabilities) music. Mrs. Trant was effusively
embarrassed. Helen was rather frigid. After tea they went into the
drawing-room. Catherine and Mrs. Trant sat for some time together
on the couch turning over the pages of a photograph album with
careful enthusiasm. In it were portrayed the Trant family in various
stages of development—the Trant family when it had anybody
distinguished to stay with it for the week-end; the Trant family at the
door of its house, on Llandudno Pier, at Chamounix, on the
promenade deck of a P. and O. liner, and in other less idyllic
positions; the Trant family taking tea on the lawn, picnicking in
Epping Forest, about to set out for a motor spin, skating on the
Connaught Waters at Chingford, playing tennis (a) on its own grass
court, (b) on its own rubble court; the Trant family in fancy dress,
evening dress, riding dress, Alpine dress, and every other kind of
dress—in short, the Trant family in every conceivable phase of its
existence. Also the Trant family individually, collectively, and in
permutations and combinations. With studious politeness Catherine
enquired from time to time as to the identity of the various strangers
who obtruded themselves upon the Trant arena. Here were Sir Miles
Coppull (the American camphor king, holding a tennis-racket
jauntily); the Rev. R. P. Cole (President of the Baptist Association);
the Rev. St. Eves Bruce, M.A., D.D. (headmaster of George’s old
public school), beaming on Helen, by the way; not to mention groups
of fierce old gentlemen whom Mrs. Trant lumped collectively as
“some of Dad’s directors.” ...
Catherine thought: “Some day I shall be amongst all that lot...”
George suggested she should play a piano solo, and she tried a
Beethoven symphony movement. But she was unaccountably
nervous, and a valuable but rather gimcrack china and ivory model
of the Taj Mahal at Agra which was placed on top of the closed
sound-board would rattle whenever she played the chord of E flat or
its inversions.
When she stopped playing Mr. Trant said: “Let me see, is that
Beethoven?” (He pronounced the first syllable to rhyme with “see”
and the second with “grove.”)
“Yes.”
“Charming little thing,” he said vaguely....
Catherine was glad when the advent of chapel time brought the
business to a conclusion. For it was business. She could see that.
She was being sized up. When she had gone they would discuss
her. They were reckoning her up. They were not surprised at her
nervousness. They expected it. They were speculating upon her
possibilities as a daughter-in-law....
There was only one thing perhaps which did not occur to them, or
which, if it did, received less attention than it deserved.
Catherine was reckoning them up. She was keenly critical of
everything they said and did. And when Mr. Trant, shaking hands
with her at the door, said: “You must come again for a musical
evening some time, and give us some more Beethoven,” Catherine
replied:
“Oh yes, I should be delighted. I’m awfully fond of Beethoven,
aren’t you?”
But she pronounced it “Bait-hoaffen.”
There was just the merest possible suggestion of rebuke, of self-
assurance, of superiority in that....
§2
And now all these things were stale by three months.
By this time she had got used to having tea on Sundays at the
Trants’ house. She was so much at home there that she could say:
“Oh, do you mind if I shift this Taj Mahal thing while I play? It rattles
so.” After a little while they learned her fancies, and had it always
removed when she came.
And she was used to George. Everything of him she now knew.
His hopes, his dreams, his peculiarities, his vices and virtues, the
colours of all his neckties—all had been exhaustively explored during
the course of many a hundred hours together. He kissed her now
every time they met—he expended much ingenuity in arranging
times and places suitable for the ritual. Sometimes, after he had
seen her home from the theatre, his kisses were hurried,
stereotyped, perfunctory, as purely a matter of routine as putting two
pennies into the machine and drawing out a tube ticket. On other
occasions, as for instance when they strolled through country lanes
at dusk, she could sense the imminence of his kisses long before
they came. When they turned down Cubitt Lane towards the Forest
at twilight it was tacitly comprehended between them: “We are going
in here to be sentimental....” When they returned the mutual
understanding was: “We have been sentimental. That ought to last
us for some time....”
People deliberately left them alone together. They looked at the
two of them as if they were or ought to be bliss personified. They
seemed to assume that an engaged couple desires every available
moment for love-making. At meal times, for example, it was always
contrived that George should be next to Catherine. Once when Mr.
and Mrs. Trant had made the excuse that they would stroll round the
garden, Catherine, noticing that Helen was about to follow
unobtrusively, said sharply:
“Please don’t go, Helen. I want you to try over a few songs.”
Catherine wondered if Helen understood.
The fact was, being engaged was deadly monotonous. It had no
excitement, no novelty. Everything was known, expected, unravelled.
When she met George at a concert she did not think: “I wonder if he
has come here on my account.” She knew beyond all question that
he had. When at some social function she saw him chatting amongst
his male friends she did not think: “Will he come up and speak to me
or not?” She knew that his very presence there was probably on her
account, and that he would leave his male friends at the first
available opportunity. And when they had ices at a tiny table in some
retiring alcove it was not possible to think: “How funny we should
both have met like this! How curious that we should be alone here!”
For she knew that the whole thing had been premeditated, that the
alcove itself had probably been left attractively vacant for their
especial benefit. There was no point, no thrill, no expectancy in
asking the question: “Is it really me he comes to all these places
for?”
He had declared his passion in unequivocal terms that left
nothing to be desired. That was just it: there was nothing left to be
desired. She would rather he had been ambiguous about it. And
occasionally the awful thought came to her: “If this is being engaged,
what must it be like to be married? ...”
Life was so placid, so wearyingly similar day after day, evening
after evening. Every night he met her at the stage-door of the theatre
and escorted her home. Every night he raised his hat and said
“Good evening!” Every night he took her music-case off her, and they
walked arm-in-arm down the High Street. Their conversation was
always either woefully sterile or spuriously brilliant. On the rare
occasions when they had anything particular to talk about they
lingered at the corner of Gifford Road. But she could not confide in
him. To tell him of her dreams and ambitions would be like asking for
a pomegranate and being given a gaudily decorated cabbage. Their
conversations were therefore excessively trivial: she retailed
theatrical and musical gossip, or, if the hour were very late and she
were tired, as frequently happened, she replied in weary
monosyllables to his enquiries. She found her mind becoming
obsessed with hundreds of insignificant facts which by dint of
constant repetition he had impressed upon her. She knew the
names, histories, characters, and family particulars of all the men
who worked with him in the stuffy little basement of the accountant’s
office in Leadenhall Street. She knew the complicated tangle of
rivalries and jealousies that went on there—how Mr. Smallwood did
this and Mr. Teake did that, and how Mr. Mainwaring (pronounced
Mannering) frequently lost his temper. She knew all the minutiae of
George’s daily work and existence, the restaurant he frequented for
lunch, the train he caught on the way home, the men he met day
after day in the restaurant and on the trains. Nothing of him was
there which she did not know....
Yet it was all so terribly, so tragically dull. Even his brilliance
palled. His brilliance was simply an extensive repertoire of smart
sayings culled from the works of Ibsen, Shaw, Chesterton, etc. In
three months she had heard them all. Moreover, he had begun to
repeat some of them.
Out of a forlorn craving for incident she quarrelled with him from
time to time. His genuine sorrow at the estrangement and his
passionate reconciliation afterwards thrilled her once or twice, but
after a few repetitions became stale like the rest. Undoubtedly he
was in love with her.
And she?
§3
Doubtless one of the reasons why George’s engagement to
Catherine was not opposed very vigorously by the Trants was
Catherine’s startlingly rapid musical development, which seemed to
prophesy a future in which anything might be expected. Ever since
that Conservative Club concert Catherine had been playing regularly
in public and acquiring a considerable local reputation. Occasional
guineas and two guineas came her way, and at the opening of the
winter season she found herself with as many engagements as she
could manage. And at a local musical festival she had come out on
top in the professional pianoforte entries. A gold medal and a good
deal of newspaper prominence were the visible and immediate
results of this. Afterwards came the welcome discovery that she was
in demand. A concert organizer offered her five pounds for a couple
of solos. An enterprising and newly established photographer
photographed her gratis and exhibited a much embellished side view
(with a rather fine hair exhibition) in his window. And she ceased to
play at church socials....
Every Saturday afternoon she went to Verreker for lessons.
Though she disliked him personally, she was compelled to admit the
excellence of his teaching. He spared her no criticism, however
severe, and when he commended her work, which was rare, she
knew he meant it. If a good teacher, he was also an irritating one. He
selected her pieces, insisted on her learning those and no others,
expected from her a good deal more than it seemed possible for her
to give, and treated her generally as a rebellious child. He was
always asking her when she was going to resign her position at the
theatre. She would never be even a moderate pianist as long as she
was there, he said.
The time came when it was of financial benefit to her to resign.
She did so, and expected him to be very pleased with her. But he
merely said:
“H’m! I suppose you waited till it paid you to.”
This was so true that she had no reply ready.
He never disguised from her the fact that, however seemingly
she might be advancing on the road to fame and success, she would
never become more than a second-rate virtuoso.
“The front rank of the second-raters is as high as you’ll ever get,”
he said. But that did not hurt her now.
What did hurt her was once when he said: “You have one
abominable habit. You pose with your hair. I should recommend you
to have it cut off, then you won’t have it to think about so much.”
“Oh, should you?” she replied angrily. “I should be sensible to cut
it off, shouldn’t I, seeing it’s the only good-looking part of me!”
She hadn’t meant to say that. It slipped out.
“Is it?” he said, and for a single fatuous second she had a wild
idea that he was going to pay her a magnificent compliment. But he
added: “I mean—it never struck me as particularly good-looking. But
then I’m no judge of hair—only of music.”
She could discern in every inflection of his voice latent hostility.
There was no doubt he disliked her intensely. Latterly, too, she had
become increasingly conscious of a mysteriously antagonistic
atmosphere when he was with her. It reacted on her playing, causing
her at times to give deplorable exhibitions. It was not nervousness. It
was something in him that was always mutely hostile to something in
her. The sensation, at first interesting, became extraordinarily
irksome after a while. Once, when a poor performance of one of
Chopin’s Ballades had evoked sarcasm and abuse almost beyond
endurance, she suddenly left the music-stool and stood facing him
with her back to the instrument.
“It’s no good,” she cried vehemently. “It’s not my fault. I’ve never
played as bad as that in my life. It’s you. I can’t play when you’re
present. Don’t know—can’t explain it, but it is so.”
He looked surprised.
“Very strange,” he said reflectively—“and unfortunate.”
She had expected him to be witheringly sarcastic. But he took it
with urbane philosophy.
“Well,” he said, “I suppose if you feel like that it can’t be helped.
We shall simply have to make the best of it.”
Which was irritatingly logical....
§4
In the Trant household the musical evening was an institution.
Rarely a month passed by unhonoured by one of these functions.
Commencing at seven or thereabouts on a Saturday evening, they
lasted till past midnight. They possessed a regular clientele of
attenders, as well as a floating population of outsiders who had
never been before and who (from more reasons, perhaps, than one)
might never come again. The drawing-room at “Highfield” was large,
but it never comfortably held the miscellaneous crowd that
assembled in it on the occasion of these musical evenings. In winter
you were either unbearably hot (near the fire) or unbearably cold
(near the window), and in summer, without exception, you were
always unbearably hot. Moreover, you were so close to your
neighbour on the overcrowded settee that you could see the
perspiration draining into her eyebrows. From a dim vista obscured
by cigarette smoke there came the sound of something or other,
indescribably vague and futile, a drawing-room ballad sung by a
squeaky contralto, a violin solo by Dvořák, or a pompous Beethovian
hum on the piano. However beautiful and forceful might be the
music, it was always vague and futile to you, because you were
watching your neighbour’s eyebrows act as a sponge to the down-
trickling perspiration.... Always in these musical evenings there was
banality. Always beauty was obscured by bathos. And could you
ever forget the gymnastic evolutions of a settleful of musical
enthusiasts balancing cups of steaming hot coffee on their knees? ...
The day before Christmas Day was a Saturday. For Christmas
Eve a musical evening had been arranged—a musical evening that,
out of deference to the season, was to surpass all previous
undertakings of the kind. Catherine was invited, and would, of
course, be one of the principal performers. In virtue of her intimate
relation to George she had come early in the afternoon and stayed to
tea. Her usual weekly lesson from Verreker was cancelled for this
particular week, probably owing to Christmas. So she would be able
to spend the entire evening at “Highfield.” She was in buoyant spirits,
chiefly owing to her rapidly advancing fame as a pianist. She had the
feeling that her presence at the Trants’ musical evening was an act
almost of condescension on her part, and it pleased her that the
Trants treated her as if this were so. She would undoubtedly be, in
music-hall parlance, the star turn of the evening. People, unknown
aspirants after musical fame, would point her out as one who had
already arrived at the sacred portals. She knew also that Mrs. Trant
had been sending round messages to friends that ran more or less
after this style: “You simply must come to our musical evening on
Christmas Eve! It is going to be an awfully big affair, and we have got
Cathie Weston coming down to play—you know, the girl who——”
The whole business tickled Catherine’s vanity.
In the interval between tea and seven o’clock she superintended
the arrangement of the piano in the drawing-room, taking care that
the light from an electric hand-lamp close by should shine
advantageously on her hair while she was playing. She decided that
she would play one of the Chopin Etudes....
§5
At a quarter past seven the room was full. According to custom
visitors introduced themselves to one another, the crowd being
altogether too large for ceremonious introductions. Late-comers
came in quietly and unostentatiously, sitting down where they could
and nodding casually to people they knew. The lighting was
æsthetically dim, being afforded by a few heavily-shaded electric
hand-lamps scattered promiscuously on tables and book-cases.
Every available corner was occupied by extra chairs brought in from
other parts of the house, and the central arena in front of the
fireplace was a dumping-ground for music-cases, ’cellos, violins, etc.
Catherine occupied a roomy arm-chair next to the fire, and was
conscious that she was being looked at attentively. A red-shaded
lamp on the end of the mantel-piece threw her hair into soft radiance,
but its effect on her eyes was so dazzling as to throw all around her
into an impenetrable dimness in which she could discern nothing but
the vague suggestion of persons and things. George sat next to her,
and from time to time passed remarks to which she replied
vivaciously, conscious that every movement of her head brought into
prominence the splendour of her hair. (Of late she had been paying
considerable attention to her hair: a visit to a West End coiffurist had
produced startling results.)
The evening crawled monotonously on. Log after log of crackling
pine was placed on the open fire-grate; song followed song, violin,
’cello, mandoline each had its turn; a girl recited “The Dandy Fifth” in
a way that was neither better nor worse than what Catherine felt she
could have done herself, and Mr. Trant’s deep voice could be heard
constantly above the periodic applause: “Charming little thing that.”
“Is that one of Bach’s?” (pronounced “Back’s”). “Very pretty, isn’t it?
Rather nice words, don’t you think?”
The order of performance was not definite. Catherine did not
know when she might be asked. Of course, she had not a trace of
nervousness. She had lost that completely now after constant
appearances on public concert platforms. And this was only a
drawing-room affair: there were no musical critics frowning in the
front row, there was probably nobody in the room who would know if
she played a false note. Besides, she would not play a false note,
She smiled contemptuously as she heard the applause evoked by a
timid rendering of a drawing-room ballad. She had an unmitigated
contempt for these drawing-room ballads. Her theatrical experience
had given her an intense hatred of cheap sentimental music of the
kind sold in music shops at one-and-sixpence a copy. The particular
song that had just been sung was of this class: its title was
monosyllabic, and its music composed with an eye to vamping the
accompaniment....
“That’s a nice little thing,” said Mr. Trant. “I don’t believe I’ve
heard it before, either.... Reminds me of something, though ... I can’t
think what....” Then in the blurred distance she could discern Mrs.
Trant’s white frocked form travelling swiftly across the room and
engaging in conversation with somebody unseen.
“Oh, please,” she heard, “please do! Everybody would be so
glad. Helen, do persuade him. Really——”
The rest was drowned in the tuning of a violin.
Then Mrs. Trant, returning to her seat, whispering to her
husband, getting up, standing with her back to the corner of the
piano, and announcing:
“We are now to have a pianoforte solo”—impressive pause;
Catherine guessed what was coming—“by Mr. Ray Verreker!”
Catherine had guessed wrong....
§6
But it was his presence there which startled her. Why was he at
such a gathering? She knew his stormy contempt for the kind of
musical suburbinanity that flourished in Upton Rising: it was his
boast that he never attended a local concert and never would.
“Suburbinanity”—that was his own word for it. She knew his fierce
hatred of the kind of things that had been going on for over an hour
—that particular violin piece by Dvořák, for instance, was anathema
to him. She knew also his passionate intolerance of mediocrity of
any kind. She could imagine his sensations when listening to that
girl’s rendering of “The Dandy Fifth.” The puzzle was, why had he
come? He knew the kind of thing it would be. He must have known
the inevitable ingredients of a suburban musical evening. And yet he
had come. He had conquered his detestation for social gatherings of
this kind so far as to come. It was rather extraordinary, completely
uncharacteristic of him.
To Catherine, always the egoist, came the thought: “Has he come
here because he knew I should be here?” Yet even a second thought
dismissed that idea as unwarrantly absurd. That would be rather an
additional reason for his staying away. For every Saturday that she
visited him convinced her more and more that he despised her and
her ways.
And she also thought: “Will the effect of his being present make
me play badly?” She did not know in the least whether it would or
not, for the circumstances were so completely different from what
they were at “Claremont.” Here she might possibly be able to forget
he was in the same room with her. Certainly he would not be at her
elbow, turning over the music pages with gestures that conveyed to
her perfectly the sensations of disgust that he was experiencing....
But he was playing. Her surprised speculations were immediately
cut short by the sound of the piano. She could see his fingers
travelling magically over the keys and his strange, grotesque face
looking vacantly over the top of the instrument. He looked different
from usual. It was probably the unaccustomed angle from which she
was watching him, for his features, perfectly unsymmetrical,
presented an astonishing variety of aspects.... She suddenly forgot
to look at him. Something that he played had thrilled her. A swift
chord, passing into a strange, uncouth melody set all her nerves
tingling. What was this piece? ... He went on through swirling
cascades of arpeggios in the right hand, falling octaves, crashing
chords, and then, once again, this strange uncouth melody, the
same, but subtly altered. Tremendous, passionately barbaric, was
this thing that he was playing. It seized hold of her as if it had
suddenly given the answer to all her wants and desires: it stretched
out clear and limitless over the furthest horizon she had ever
glimpsed; it held all the magic of the stars. And far ahead, further
than she had ever dared to look before, lay the long reaches of
boundless, illimitable passion ... passion ... passion ... that was what
it was.... Her hands twitched convulsively on the sides of the chair.
She was caught in a great tide; it was sweeping her further and
further outward and onward; she wanted to cry out but could not.
Tears were in her eyes, but they would not fall. And for the first time
that evening she forgot the pose of her head and hair....
Applause was to her the waking from a dream. They were
applauding. A fierce storm of contempt for them overtook her,
because she knew they had not heard and seen and felt what she
had heard and seen and felt. Their applause was banal, atrociously
common-place. Even in mere volume it did not exceed that which
had been accorded to the song with the monosyllabic title or to “The
Dandy Fifth.” And Catherine, vaguely annoyed that there was any
applause at all, was also vaguely angry that it had been so
indiscriminating. She did not applaud herself, but she heard George
clapping almost in her left ear, and she shot a curious glance at him.
She was thinking: “How much of it has meant anything at all to you?”
And then she heard Mr. Trant’s deep, suave voice: “What did you
say that was? Peculiar piece, but awfully pretty.”
Verreker mentioned a title she could not hear. George had
apparently caught something. He whispered to her in spasms:
“Jeux—something or other, I think he said. French, I suppose.
Modern French. Debussy school, you know. Oh, it’s ‘Jeux d’Eaux.’ I
heard him say it again. ‘Jeux d’Eaux,’ that’s what it is.... One of
Ravel’s things, you know.” ...
§7
Verreker returned to his seat. There followed a baritone song of
the rollicking variety, a ’cello solo, and then Mrs. Trant called for a
“pianoforte solo by Miss Catherine Weston.”
Catherine rose languidly, and picked her way amongst the violins
and music-stands to the piano. She screwed the stool an inch or so
higher (it being a point of honour with her always to make some
alteration, however slight, in the seating accommodation provided for
her), then she lowered the music-rest and slid it back as far as it
would go. Her first piece was to be the “Butterfly” Study in G flat
(Chopin), so she gently ran her hands arpeggio-wise along the tonic
and inversions of G flat. Having done this she paused, chafed her
fingers delicately, and tossed her head. The lamp at her side shone
on her magnificent hair, throwing her face and bust into severe
profile. It was then that she noticed a slight commotion in the far
corner of the room. A man was disengaging himself from the closely-
wedged throng and proceeding to the doorway. As he passed the
fireplace the flames flickered brightly round a log of wood just placed
on the fire. Catherine in a swift glance saw that it was Verreker....
Carefully he wound his way to the door and passed out.
Catherine flushed Her hands commenced to play, but her whole
being was tingling with anger. She was conscious that everybody in
the room had noticed his ostentatious withdrawal and was drawing
conclusions from it. Everybody knew she took lessons from him. His
going out of the room at that moment was nothing less than a
deliberate insult offered to her in front of everybody. In the half-
shadows round the piano she could see the faces of Mr. and Mrs.
Trant, both rather bewildered.... Her fingers were moving
automatically; before she properly realized she was playing a solo
they had stopped. Cloudily she grasped the fact that the “Butterfly”
Study had come to an end. Applause floated in, and she found
herself walking back to her seat. Applause thinned and subsided;
Mrs. Trant said something, and there began the tuning of a couple of
violins with much unnecessary prodding of notes on the piano.
George was saying something to her, but she was not listening. The
door opened and Verreker re-entered. He sat down unostentatiously
in a chair close by and his face was hidden by shadows. The piano
tinkled into the opening of a Haydn Concerto.... And Catherine
thought: “That was really a horrid thing to do. I believe it is the
nastiest trick I ever saw. I expected rudeness, but somehow not that
—at any rate, not in public.” She was primarily angry, but in her
anger there was more than a tinge of disappointment....
She hated him. The fact that it was his teaching that had brought
her success was swamped utterly in this petty insult he had seen fit
to offer her in public. Once the idea did strike her: perhaps it was just
coincidence that he went out while I was playing. But instinct told her
that his withdrawal was deliberate, part of a planned scheme to
humiliate her. And she kept piercing the shadows where he sat with
a venomous greenish glint in her eyes, until she reflected that even if
she could not see him, he could very likely see her. At this she
flushed hotly and turned away. The evening crept towards midnight.
Coffee was handed round. There was a momentary respite from
music after the conclusion of the Hadyn Concerto, and conversation
swelled into a murmurous hum all over the room. She lit a cigarette
and puffed out smoke languidly. George went to the music cabinet
and brought out some Ravel music. She scanned it perfunctorily; as
a matter of fact she had but a vague idea of what it was like by
looking at it. “Pavane pour un Enfant Défunt,” it was called; the first
few pages looked charmingly simple. George could not find “Jeux
d’Eaux.” Possibly he had not got a copy. But all this modern music
was frightfully interesting. Had she heard César Franck’s Violin
Sonata—the famous one? Or Scriabin’s Eleven Preludes? Or
Debussy’s “L’Après-midi d’une Faune”? Of course, futurist music
was merely the development of what other composers had led the
way to. Some of Chopin’s Ballades and Preludes, for instance, gave
one the impression that if he had lived a century later he might have
been furiously modern. And of course Tchaikovsky. In fact——
Catherine listened patiently, putting in an occasional “Yes” and
“Of course” and “I daresay.” Her one thought was: “I have been
publicly insulted.” And George did not pass even the frontiers of her
mind save when she reflected casually: “Considering what a lot
George knows, it’s rather queer he should be so remarkably
uninteresting at times....”
§8
It was nearly one on Christmas morning when the party broke up.
Catherine was waiting in the hall for George. He had gone to help
somebody to find his or her music-case. Most of the company had
gone; some were going, with much loud chattering on the doorstep